by Diana Fraser
If Maia was here, anywhere in Sitra, she’d be in the city. Lucy surveyed the jumble of buildings with their uneven roofs above which heat shimmered, distorting the chaos even further. It was all so physically close, and yet it felt as if it were a different world. Whether it was or not, she’d soon find out. Razeen had promised to show her the city. She turned away from the view, trailing her hand over the heavy blooms, releasing their sweet fragrance and a spray of water that showered her hand and arm in a momentary flash of rainbow colors.
“A rainmaker, hey?” Lucy turned around sharply. Razeen was standing close by looking highly amused. “I should have known. The day you arrived in my country, a storm was forecast—it’s due to arrive in a few days.”
She grinned. “I’ve always thought of myself as powerful, but not quite on the weather-making scale.”
He walked over to her and she turned to face him, instinctively wanting her body to be close to his.
“You mustn’t underestimate yourself. I can quite imagine you wield an influence far beyond your knowing.”
Her smile faded as she looked into his eyes: eyes that had ceased to joke, but held a curious sadness she couldn’t fathom.
“I think I’d prefer not to know the extent of any powers I may have. I may use them for evil. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”
He cast her a quick sidewards glance. “Ignorance is never bliss. And that’s why I asked you here. The afternoon is the best time to see the sights Sitra has to offer.” He smiled, relaxed, once more. “I’d be pleased to show you around.”
She walked over to him. “Won’t you being the King make that a little difficult?”
“I will go incognito.”
“Ah, hence the plain robes.”
“Indeed.”
“And hence only one bodyguard.” She inclined her head toward the powerful-looking guard who was waiting for them at the top of some winding stone steps.
He grinned. “That is low-key for me, believe me.”
“But surely you’re safe in your own city?”
“Of course. Sometimes I think the guard is there to keep me from mixing with the people, rather than the other way round.” Lucy frowned, struck by the wistful tone in his voice. “Let’s go. Most people will be resting in an hour or so. Then, we will have the places we will visit to ourselves. It will be better that way.”
Better for whom, Lucy thought as she followed him down the worn steps that clung precipitously to the outside wall of the palace before emerging out onto the main street of Sitra. Being alone with Razeen wouldn’t help her find Maia. And it might just end in her losing herself.
Out on the street, Lucy was hit by a wall of heat and noise. Stalls selling everything imaginable lined the roadside and there were people everywhere—the women in black, the men in white—surging around the pavement and the street. She recoiled momentarily before forcing herself to continue.
“Anything wrong?” Razeen stopped walking and drew her to him, under the shade of a faded awning.
She was surprised he’d noticed. It seemed he was as aware of her, as she was of him. “It’s just so…”
“Chaotic?”
She nodded.
“That’s what I enjoy most. But it’s not threatening, you’ll get used to it.” He frowned. “But you do seem out of your element, like a mermaid washed ashore.”
“A fish out of water. You’re not far wrong.”
“Do you wish to continue?”
Maia. The single word floated across her mind like a shadow. “Of course. I’d love to see everything about the city.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
She smiled briefly, desperately trying to summon up the confidence that she usually felt but which was weakened here, now, with him. She smiled again. “Yes, I’m sure. Let’s go and you can tell me what it was like growing up here.”
They were soon part of the crowds. She was tense to begin with, watching the faces of passers-by to see if they singled her and Razeen out. But, with her tanned skin and dark glasses, no one gave her a second glance and Razeen’s nondescript robes obviously achieved their aim of completing disguising the new King. Which was odd, she thought, given he was taller than most. Surely, even dressed in ordinary robes, people would still recognize him? Lucy was beginning to wonder if the average person knew anything about their King.
“I guess being the son of the King must have made life pretty easy for you?”
He shook his head. “It was almost as if I had two lives.”
“Really?”
“Yes, within the palace I was the irritating youngest child who, more often than not, was in the way. It was extremely formal.” He pursed his lips briefly. “My mother was…reclusive and my father and brother were very similar, and very close.”
“Sounds suffocating.”
“It was. That’s why I used to escape.”
“Where to? The sea? The hills?”
He laughed. “I am not you, Lucy. Despite what it may seem in the palace where my advisors insist on formality, on keeping my distance from everyone, I have always been drawn to people. I used to run off into the market and play with the boys there.”
“Did they know who you were?”
“No,” he laughed. “They had no idea. I was just another skinny boy with more interest in playing games, eating bread fresh from the pan and kissing girls, than studying the dry subjects my brother was interested in.”
“Kissing girls came last on your list?” She teased.
He turned a narrowed gaze on her and her heart suddenly raced. “Always first.”
She took a deep breath. “I can imagine.”
He shifted closer to her. “Even at University, my interests stayed much the same.”
“They do degrees in such things?”
He grinned. “I wish. No, my studies were fitted around my interests.”
“You were very consistent, then.” She licked her lips. “Your commitment to your interests didn’t waver.”
“If you want to be good at something, then you have to practice. If you want to be a connoisseur of something, you need to know it well.”
She swallowed and dragged a breath deep into her lungs. “And did you succeed…in becoming a connoisseur?”
His lips curved into a sensual smile. “Now that, I’m hoping you will discover yourself.” He searched her face and whatever he found there appeared to confirm his hopes and his smile deepened. “But for now, my bodyguard, Assad, is becoming impatient with our meandering. Come, I’ll show you a few sights. Give you some background to your journalism piece.”
“What first?” She looked away from him, trying to concentrate on the reason she was here.
“The Great Mosque of Sitra. Look, over there, up on the hill facing the palace—the gold domes, the minarets—that’s The Great Mosque. It’s very old and revered by Christian and Muslim alike. It’s very special.” He turned back to her. “That is, if you’d like to see it. Perhaps, instead, you’d prefer a quiet afternoon at the palace.” He cast a quick look around and, obviously satisfied they weren’t overlooked, tucked a stray lock of hair back under her scarf. “I have given myself the afternoon off.”
Her body screamed to accept his invitation. From the casual touch to her hair that blasted a heated trail deep inside of her, to the light in his eyes when he talked of the days of his childhood, he communicated a warmth and ease that lay at the heart of his charm. But there was only one thing that stopped her. The old compass shifted stickily between her breasts under her robes. She had no bearings until she found Maia.
“The mosque, Razeen, please. I’d like to see the mosque and everything else the city has to offer.”
He frowned, uncertainly. He probably wasn’t used to his advances being rebuffed. But he soon recovered and turned to her with his usual charming smile.
“The mosque it is.”
The mosque—with its central dome, its minarets, from which the muezzin gave the call to prayer, and
the arcades, which ran parallel to the direction of prayer toward Mecca—was stunning. And it moved Lucy in a way she hadn’t expected. Its exquisite decorations and sheer size was breathtaking. But the mosque, together with the places that Razeen took her to afterwards, did nothing to further her search for Maia.
However, she thought as she took off her sunglasses, there was one thing she’d learned. They were walking alongside the women’s market and when she turned toward the market, her gaze was met by a dozen stares. Lucy’s green eyes signaled her status as a ferenji, or foreigner. She’d learned that there were no other westerners here and she knew that there was no way the pale-skinned, red-haired Maia could be in the city without there being talk. And it was that talk that she needed to listen to. It should be easy enough. Razeen had commented that, despite his father’s isolationist policies, many people in his country knew a little English, and some a lot, with the increased opportunities to study abroad and cable TV. If only she could persuade Razeen to let her enter the market alone.
She slipped her sunglasses back on her nose and turned to Razeen.
“Can we stop here for a bit?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been thoughtless. You need refreshment.” Razeen signaled for a vendor to step forward with a glass of pomegranate juice and Lucy drank it thankfully.
“That was delicious, but I was wondering if we could enter the souk.”
Razeen frowned. “It’s the woman’s market. I can’t enter.”
“But—”
“I can’t let you go alone. Tomorrow, perhaps. I’ll organize for some women to accompany you.”
Lucy wracked her brain, trying to come up with a reason for her to go alone but before she could answer a palace official appeared and bowed before them.
“Your Majesty.”
Irritated by the public address, Razeen turned to the man with a scowl. “What is it?”
“Urgent business at the palace. Your senior advisor has requested you come immediately.”
Razeen’s face turned grim and he closed his eyes briefly as if trying to keep his irritation in check.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I must leave you now but Assad will keep you company if you wish to look around further.”
“That would be great. There’s so much to see.”
“I will see you later.” His lips briefly curled into a smile but his eyes remained stern.
Razeen was soon lost amongst the crowds and Lucy wandered over to the women’s market. She turned to see an irritated Assad—obviously unimpressed with his demotion to look after a foreign visitor, and a woman at that—checking his cell phone for messages. Lucy took her chance and slipped away into the depth of the women’s market, where the guard wasn’t able to follow.
It was late afternoon and the souk was teeming with people after the post-lunch Qaylulah during which they rested. Lucy wove her way through the narrow aisles between stalls laden with produce of every variety. But it was the food stalls that drew her. She’d always loved food; the alchemy of turning raw ingredients into something special fascinated her. She stopped beside a spice stall where bags brimmed with spices the color of the sun—red, pale yellow, deep gold, burnished orange—some familiar and some completely unknown to her.
The woman, whose stall it was, caught her eye and spoke to her in rapid Arabic. Lucy smiled and shook her head. She dipped her head to smell a brilliant orange spice. Again the woman tried to speak to her and again, she shook her head. This time, however, the woman spoke to another much younger woman who had her back to them. She turned around and eyed Lucy directly.
“English?”
Surprised, Lucy nodded. “I’m from New Zealand. Do you speak English?”
“Yes. My friend’s brother lives in the US and sends her TV shows. I borrow them and we both learn English. My friend’s brother says I am good.”
“You are.”
The young woman smiled shyly. "My name is Aakifah."
"And mine, Lucy."
“L’see?”
Lucy grinned. “Yes.”
The other woman poured forth a stream of Arabic to Aakifah. “My mother asks if you buy her spices or just smell them?”
Lucy grinned at the mother. “I’d love to buy some but I don’t recognize them all and I’m not sure how they’re used. Could your mother tell me?”
Aakifah turned to her mother and they had an animated conversation. “My mother says she will show you.” She turned and spoke rapidly to yet another young woman. “My sister will work the stall.”
“Great!” Lucy plucked off her sunglasses and followed Aakifah round the back of the roughly-built stall. “Thank you,” she smiled and nodded to the older woman who was already squatting beside a small stove, heating oil in a shallow pan.
She was soon on her haunches beside the other women, listening to Aakifah's translations of her mother’s descriptions of the spices and the meat and grains with which she used them. Soon, other women were grouped around them having heard that there was a ferenji in the market. Before long the old woman had served up a plate of food and urged Lucy to taste it.
Lucy took a mouthful, closed her eyes and sighed. “Fantastic!” She gestured her approval to the older woman who grinned widely.
“My mother asks that you show us what cooking you do, please.”
“I’d love to.”
Lucy bought a selection of ingredients with Aakifah's help and before long she was cooking a dish that had long been a favorite amongst the crews of the boats she’d worked on.
Spoonfuls were handed around to an appreciative audience.
“Mother said this is very good indeed. She especially likes the way you’ve used the lemon with the spices. But she wonders if your husband and children are accepting of the lack of goat meat.”
Lucy paused for a long moment suddenly aware of the wide gulf that divided them. “I have no husband or children.”
After Aakifah translated, there was a collective gasp and a murmur of disbelief rippled around the group.
“It’s normal in the West not to marry until you’re older,” Lucy continued, feeling a need to justify the behavior the others obviously saw as very strange. “Western women like to pursue a career, live an independent life.”
There was much shaking of heads and pitying looks.
“Mother says that it is a waste of beauty and skill to be a spinster.”
“Thank your mother for her compliments but please assure her I’m perfectly happy as I am.” Met with disbelieving looks, Lucy suddenly felt uncomfortable. She’d spent enough time in the souk; she needed to get back to the palace and she still hadn’t asked the question she needed to know the answer to. “I am looking for someone, Aakifah—my sister. I think she may be in Sitra. Do you see many westerners here? Have you heard of a very beautiful woman, tall, red hair, very pale skin?”
Aakifah frowned and spoke briefly to the small crowd who’d gathered around them. There was a jumble of worried responses but the plethora of shaking heads made Lucy’s heart sink. “If your sister is in Sitra she has not been through the city. We would have heard of such a person. She sounds like a jinn, a ghost.”
Lucy forced a disappointed smile to her face and stood up. “She’s no ghost. Perhaps, as you say, she’s not even here. Anyway, I have to go now. Please thank your mother. It's been great. Very kind. Very hospitable.”
The old woman obviously understood the meaning and nodded enthusiastically while talking in a stream of Arabic to her daughter. “She says you must come again.”
“I'd love to.”
Aakifah walked with Lucy to the edge of the market where they both stopped. As Lucy scanned the crowds for the guard, she was aware Aakifah was studying her, her eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled frown. “Where you stay in Sitra, L’cee?”
“At the palace. The person I worked for knows the King who has allowed me to stay there for a few weeks.”
Aakifah’s eyes widened. “The new King? You are very honored. But,” the w
oman bit her lip and glanced up under long dark lashes, “aren’t you frightened?”
Lucy frowned. “Frightened? Why should I be?”
“The new King is very stern. He makes big changes in our land. The elders believe his ways are too foreign; they do not like what he is doing.”
“But things have improved, haven’t they? There seems no shortage of food in the markets.”
“That is true. It is not like before. The poor people have more money, more food. Life is not so hard.”
“Then I think the fears of the elders must be that they’re losing their money to the poor.”
Aakifah’s brief look of shock turned to laughter as she embraced Lucy and they parted. “I hope you will visit us again, L’cee.”
“I hope so too.”
“Goodbye L’cee.”
The last syllable followed Lucy out into the street as if calling out to the sea that she so loved.
After an initial barrage of unintelligible Arabic, Lucy had to endure a stony silence from Assad until he deposited her inside the palace gates, leaving her with a cursory bow. With no idea how to retrace her steps to her room, Lucy wandered toward the main offices where she was directed to wait in the public reception rooms where the King had granted a public audience to some people embroiled in a land dispute. Lucy thought it appeared medieval somehow that people were allowed to sit in on meetings but she went and sat on the seats arranged at the rear of the room.
There was only a handful of people there watching. What struck her was the distance between Razeen and the people to whom he was listening. She thought he’d get up at any moment to bridge the gap that so obviously existed, not just physically but in the tone of the people. But he didn’t. Razeen looked so alone up there. Why didn’t people sit with him? Why weren’t the people talking to him made to feel comfortable, at ease? He appeared a different man to the one she was getting to know. There was no humor, no approachability, no sense that he was listening to the people. And he was, she was sure of it. Only it didn’t look as though he was. She slipped outside and waited for Razeen to finish.